


Fic:  Poor Little Sherlock

by lucybun



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-22
Updated: 2011-08-22
Packaged: 2017-10-22 23:33:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,346
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/243800
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lucybun/pseuds/lucybun
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is my massively fluffy stab at the "Sherlock doesn't eat" trope.  Sherlock and John deal with Sherlock's bad eating habits.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fic:  Poor Little Sherlock

**Author's Note:**

> This is so fluffy that it's honest-to-goodness based on a poem from _Winnie the Pooh and the House at Pooh Corner_ by A.A. Milne. This was written a while back for the beautiful livia_carica who was going through a rough patch and needed cheering up. This has not been Brit-picked, but I've been assured by a friend in England that fortune cookies are referred to as "cookies" not "biscuits."

_  
**  
What shall we do about poor little Tigger?  
If he never eats nothing, he'll never get bigger.   
**   
_   


They were sitting in the Chinese restaurant down the street, John picking away long splinters from the side of his disposable chop sticks, Sherlock shoveling in the last few bites of his pork fried rice. He soon swallowed his last mouthful and washed it down with tepid green tea. He wiped his mouth and actually smacked his lips. John watched him lean back from the table and issue a huge sigh, rubbing at his stomach which was visibly distended under his very fitted shirt.

John, who had been fighting a descent into aggravated lecture-mode for well over an hour, finally threw in the towel. This was beyond absurd. Sherlock had gone almost 96 hours without eating more than the granola bar John had practically shoved down his throat 36 hours ago. As soon as Lestrade’s team had moved in and apprehended the murderer they’d finally run to ground, Sherlock was a quaking mess. John didn’t even want to think about his blood sugar levels, but when the tall man went paler than normal and began to sway on his feet, John had been able to think of little else. Sherlock had almost passed out back there. Syncope caused by pure foolishness. Well, John had had enough.

“I don’t know why you have this utterly mad idea that you can think better when you’re hungry. It’s precisely the opposite. That’s proven, physiological fact. You should know that, Sherlock,” he said in angry, clipped tones.

“What I know, John, is that eating distracts me. Digestion takes up power my brain could be using,” Sherlock replied, his vexation at having to repeat this for the thousandth time audible.

“ _Hunger_ distracts you, you idiot,” John practically snarled. “Nearly hitting the pavement and busting your skull open distracts you, you dolt. ‘The rest is transport.’ Bah. Spectacularly ignorant, Sherlock. Spectacularly, hugely, light-up-the-night-with-the-sheer-marvel-of-your-stupidity ignorant.” He threw his hands up in the air in pure frustration as he finished, the uncharacteristic dramatic flourish a clear sign of his agitation.

Sherlock watched John fidget some more and squirm around in his seat, but he wasn’t sure if it was caused by embarrassment or anger. He got his answer when John’s eyes defiantly met his own. Anger then.

Sherlock steadily held his gaze as he asked, “Feel better now?”

John gave an irritated snort. “Yes, I do,” he answered with a sharp nod. “Do you?” he asked pointedly, gesturing with his chin at the clean plate sitting in front of his friend.

In answer, Sherlock abruptly stood, pulled some notes out of his wallet, dropped them on the table, and zipped out the door. It seemed he’d indulged John’s ire enough for one night.

John grabbed the two fortune cookies off the table and said goodnight to Mr. Lau as he stepped from the red-tinged dimness of the restaurant into the cool night air. He ambled along slowly back to Baker Street, Sherlock visible in the distance, his dark head bobbing up and down with his determined stride, his great coat whipping round his calves. By the time John wandered into 221B he had cookie crumbs on his chin and a fond, self-satisfied smile on his lips

That night, when he finally stumbled up to bed, Sherlock found a cellophane wrapped cookie lying in the middle of his pillow. He fell asleep with cookie crumbs on his chin and a fond, self-satisfied smile on his lips.

  
 **  
_  
He doesn't like honey and haycorns and thistles  
Because of the taste and because of the bristles.   
_   
**

“It’s a salad,” John said in the same beleaguered tone he’d once used to say, “It’s the solar system.”

“I know what it is, for God’s sake,” Sherlock scoffed, clearly affronted that John thought he was that ill-informed. He knew what the food was. “I just don’t know why you think I’d eat it.”

“Look at it,” John urged, holding the deep plate under Sherlock’s nose. “It’s got apples and berries and several different types of nuts. And you’ll love the dressing. It’s got pomegranate in, and it’s so sweet it’ll lock your jaw.” He was a half-step away from “open up for the choo-choo” territory.

Sherlock continued to stare down the length of his nose at the dish as if it contained a writhing mass of fresh entrails rather than a fruit and nut salad. That wasn’t quite accurate though. In reality, Sherlock wouldn’t have been at all disgusted by a writhing mass of entrails; he would’ve been thoroughly delighted if John had brought that home.

John swallowed his exasperation and tried not to clench his jaw till his teeth ached. He relaxed the hand he’d unconsciously fisted at his side and rolled his shoulders to loosen the joints. “Please, just try it,” he coaxed in his best “trust me, I’m a doctor” voice.

Nothing. Sherlock sat stony faced, determinedly ignoring John and warily eyeing the salad like it might suddenly decide to pick a fight. John gave him exactly sixty more seconds to tuck into the worryingly aggressive pile of greens before he finally lost the last shred of his patience.

“Eat the fucking salad, you twat. Pick up your fork and eat the goddamn thing right fucking now, Sherlock Holmes,” he said adamantly, in his best “you better do exactly as I fucking say, I’m an _army_ doctor” voice.

Shockingly enough, it worked. To a point.

Sherlock literally jerked in surprise and looked up at John like he’d grown a second head, metaphorically speaking. Had John actually grown a second head, Sherlock would most assuredly have been far more fascinated than gobsmacked. Recovering his supercilious aplomb quicker than John would have liked, his grey eyes locked with John’s blue gaze, and they proceeded to engage in an epic staring contest that, if looks really could kill, would have left a very interesting scene at 221B for Lestrade’s team the next day.

After a long enough time had passed that John was beginning to worry the lettuce was going to wilt and the whole point would be moot, Sherlock shifted subtly in his chair. Never breaking eye contact, he reached down for his fork and took a bite of the salad. Picking up small forkfuls and chewing painfully slowly, he ate the rest of his salad without once looking down. When he took the last bite, John deliberately broke eye contact and looked down at the empty plate. He didn’t mind letting Sherlock have his little victory; he was pleased enough with his own.

  
 _  
**  
And all the good things which an animal likes  
Have the wrong sort of swallow or too many spikes.   
**   
_

“I don’t like it,” Sherlock whined.

John took two deep breaths in through his nose, blinked rapidly several times, and licked his lips. He then pasted on an eerily fake smile that accentuated the straight line of his teeth. “You haven’t even tried it,” he countered with the age old tack of mothers everywhere.

Sherlock crossed his arms and examined his seemingly captivating shoe laces. “Don’t need to,” he asserted sullenly.

Blinking even more and smiling even wider with not one ounce of humour, John persisted, “If you haven’t tried it, how can you know you won’t like it?” It took an enormous strength of will to refuse to be mortified by the fact that he was in the cafeteria at Bart’s on a Thursday afternoon speaking to his flatmate the same way he’d address a recalcitrant three year-old.

“It’s jelly,” Sherlock groused with a twist of his face and a drawl to his words that other people might use when referring to maggots and rotting flesh or that Sherlocks might use when referring to rainbows and unicorns…and jelly, ostensibly.

John basically ignored him, which was almost always for the best in non-mystery-solving situations. “It’s _strawberry_ jelly, though. You like strawberry,” he cajoled.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “The problem isn’t the flavor, John,” he replied with utter disdain, “it’s the texture. I don’t like the way it feels in my mouth, and I’m not eating it, no matter what you say.” He didn’t stamp his size 12 Italian leather oxfords, but it was a near thing.

John was the one who rolled his eyes this time at the man’s fit of pique, but then he looked down at the little bowl of jelly in his hand and flashed back to the last time he’d had creamed rice… and how it had nearly come back up while he was still sitting at the dinner table.

He put the bowl of jelly back down and reached for some chocolate cake instead.

  
 _  
**  
But whatever his weight in pounds,  
shillings, and ounces,   
**   
_

“He looks a bit different,” Lestrade said to John while they stood in a car park watching Sherlock bob and weave and duck and dive among the automobiles, looking for God knows what.

“Yeah?” the Doctor absently replied.

Lestrade turned to look at the man at his side. “Yeah. He looks _better_. Has he put on weight?”

“He has, yes.” John’s eyes moved jerkily back and forth as they followed Sherlock’s every twitch and tumble.

Lestrade peeked back at Sherlock then back again to John. “New suits, too, huh?”

John nodded distractedly. “Well, it didn’t take much to make his old suits too tight. They were tailored a bit trim to begin with. New shirts, too. It’s all still cut the way he likes, though I tried to get him to go a bit looser because he still needs to gain weight. Wouldn’t hear of it, the vain bastard. I guess he doesn’t mind dropping a mint on new suits every time he puts on a half stone.”

Lestrade fought a chuckle as John Watson stood there prattling about tailoring and nipped waists and the way Sherlock preferred the cut of his suits. It was nauseatingly saccharine. It was also bloody adorable. The doctor was so focused on Sherlock that Lestrade was sure he had no idea of the adoring grin that was painted across his face. It too was stomach-churningly sweet.

“God,” Lestrade said to himself, “this thing between Sherlock and John, whatever it is, it’s doing nothing but growing; and it’s completely, absolutely, ridiculously cute. _They_ are ridiculously cute.”

He felt an evil little smirk tug at his lips. Oh, he couldn’t wait to spring that word on the two of them. He quit trying to stifle a positively Grinchly grin once he pictured the looks the men would no doubt get on their faces the first time he called them “cute.” It would be priceless. It would be a bleeding highlight of his career, he just knew it. He decided it was probably best for him to savor it though. If there’s just one bullet, it should only be used in dire circumstances and with extreme precision. Still, knowing it was part of his arsenal might help get him through some of the rougher patches of dealing with Sherlock. Yes, he was definitely going to hoard that little gem away for a day when the consulting detective was being exceptionally, exceedingly dick-headed. This afternoon, probably.

  
 **  
_  
He always seems bigger because  
of his bounces.   
_   
**

“… so, clearly, the only person who could have done it was someone with access to the executive toilet, which obviously requires a key-card for access. And the only person to swipe their card to gain entry that afternoon was,” he paused for effect, the bloody diva, “Gareth Baines.”

Everyone stood there a bit stunned, though no one really should have been after all the times his team had looked on in begrudging amazement as the man walked them step by step and leap by leap through the astounding machinations of his mind. The first one to recover was, of course, John.

“Fantastic. Bloody amazing, Sherlock,” he fawned, still genuinely impressed no matter how many times he’d seen this show. Lestrade thought the man was apt to break into applause one of these days.

Surprisingly enough, Sherlock didn’t respond with that typical sneer of his that made one’s palm itch with the need to smack it right off his face. No, he simply looked pleased and delighted… and perhaps just a tiny bit honored. He smiled a private little smile back at the beaming doctor before he turned to Lestrade and ruined the entire effect by snapping, “Well, my work here is done. Think you and your goon squad can manage the rest, Detective Inspector?”

Lestrade merely nodded, seriously contemplating whether or not that “goon” remark was worth pulling out the “cute” gun. Before he could decide, though, Sherlock had already bounded off, John rushing along behind him. Greg’s jaw nearly hit the floor when he saw Sherlock actually stop and wait for the doctor to sidle up alongside him. He then gently wrapped the man’s smaller hand in the leather-clad cradle of his own.

They were still close enough for the Detective Inspector to hear Sherlock say, in his smoothest, most pleasant voice, “I’m hungry, John. I think I’d like a steak. A big, juicy steak.”

The doctor lovingly squeezed Sherlock’s hand and replied, “Sounds perfect.”

Lestrade continued watching as the two of them walked off, hand in hand, thinking how right they looked together. Sherlock looked better than he ever had before. He was healthier, stronger... happier; and Lestrade was quite sure that had very little to do with the increased frequency of Sherlock’s meals. No, it had very much to do with the little man walking by his side. For the first time in a very long time, he thought that maybe Sherlock was turning into the man he ought to be. A man good enough for one Doctor John H. Watson.

  


  
**"Hallo, Pooh", said Piglet.  
"Hallo, Piglet. This is Tigger."  
"Oh, is it?" said Piglet, and he edged round to the other side of the table. "I thought Tiggers were smaller than that."  
"Not the big ones," said Tigger.  
— _Winnie the Pooh and The House at Pooh Corner_ by A.A. Milne.**   


  



End file.
